


An Unexpected Visit

by the_consulting_criminal_6



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen, No Slash, Poor John, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Somewhere in s2?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_consulting_criminal_6/pseuds/the_consulting_criminal_6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock (BBC) meets Holmes (Downey films), and chaos ensues. Holmes is much more cheerful whereas Sherlock is... Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Holmes is from the Downey films while Sherlock is the BBC version, just in case the fic gets confusing (which it does).
> 
> This is my first work on AO3... Please read and comment!

The man arrived with a deafening bang in a puff of grey smoke, flying halfway across the room and then collapsing in a heap, breaking the coffee table. His dusty clothes were old-fashioned, and a pipe was clutched between his thin fingers; dark, unruly hair stuck up in all directions, and Sherlock Holmes stared at him for a second before snatching John's revolver from the table and pointing it at the intruder's forehead.

The man didn't stir, and Sherlock crept forward warily, blue-green eyes darting between the smashed table underneath his unplanned visitor and the guest himself. He was wearing a coal-grey coat covered in a thin layer of dust with a white- well, originally white button-down shirt and black trousers.

As Sherlock came within an arm's reach of him, the man shot bolt-upright and yelled something incoherently, staggering to his feet. As his eyes landed on Sherlock, he glanced down first at the other's clothes, next at his room, and finally at the revolver aimed at his face.

"Hello," he said cheerily.

Sherlock did a double take, and then his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the perhaps-lunatic before him. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock started, "And I work with the Scotland Yard police as a consulting detective, so if you don't explain how - and why - you exploded your way into my living room, I'm calling them down."

There was a second of silence, and then the man said with both eyebrows raised, in an unimpressed voice, "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't like repeating myself," Sherlock sighed.

"You."

"Yes."

"Sherlock Holmes, you."

"YES!"

"Well, then. This is a bit awkward... I mean, I can see that you believe you're Sherlock Holmes, and you certainly work for the police (even an amateur could see that), and-" the man nodded to Sherlock's wall of Moriarty-related pictures and information- "You're certainly a detective. I, however, am Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. You may call me Holmes."

Sherlock frowned, noting the lump in the other man's coat (old-fashioned pistol in an inside pocket) and the odd fold of his shirt (rumpled, he slept in it). There was ink on the cuffs of his shirt (was he using a pen, or an old-fashioned quill...?) and he had a bruise over his eye (fist-fight, definitely). For several minutes both men scrutinized each other, and, in the case of the mysterious "Holmes", the rest of the room as well.

"What's that?" Holmes asked, nodding to the telly.

Sherlock stared. Yes, the man certainly seemed to have burst out of the nineteenth century, but that was not, in any way the world knew, possible, so Holmes really should know what a television was.

"It's... a television," Sherlock said finally in a flat voice, and he saw genuine confusion flicker across the other man's face.

"Te-le-vi-sion," Holmes said, stretching out the syllables. "Teeeh-leeeh-viiih-jaaaan. Television. Tele-"

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Have you been raised under a rock, or do you genuinely not know what a television is?"

"Uh... I'll go with the first option."

Sherlock shook his head. "You look like you've just burst out of the nineteenth century and into my flat, you have no bloody clue what a television is, you claim to be me-"

"Actually," Holmes corrected with a grin. "I think it's you who are pretending to be me, not the other way around. And this is the nineteenth century."

Sherlock glared, unused to being interrupted (actually, he was normally the one who interrupted others) and not liking the fact that the man before seemed completely oblivious to his death glare. "Have you been sent by Moriarty?"

Holmes jumped, and gave Sherlock a startled look. "Lord, no! I leaped off a waterfall with him, why the hell would I have been sent by him!?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You... jumped off a waterfall with him."

"I don't like repeating myself," Holmes mimicked with a devilish grin, but Sherlock was racking his brains.

"Are you a hallucination from my Mind Palace?"

Holmes gave him an odd look. "What, are you planning on becoming a princess any time soon?"

"No, really. I've had a weird week. Are you a hallucination?" Sherlock asked, and took a step closer. Holmes really was short.

"Can hallucinations smash tables?" the man before him countered, and Sherlock stepped closer again.

"Not sure..." Sherlock put a tentative hand on Holmes's shoulder, and was surprised when he felt the rough cloth of Holmes's coat. "Hmph. I suppose you are real, then."

"Well, yes, I did say so."

"Sherlock, I got the mil-" the fair-haired John Watson froze in the doorway of his friend's flat, and instantly reached for his revolver before realizing that it was already pointed at Holmes's head, held by Sherlock. "What is going on in here!?"

"He says he's me!" both Sherlocks chorused, and Sherlock glared while Holmes grinned.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock looked at his friend defiantly. "Tell him who I am."

"You're Sherlock Holmes, a pain in the arse and a child, and I have your lunch." John dropped a sandwich onto the table in front of the taller Sherlock, and added, "Also, tell your brother to stop kidnapping me."

Sherlock hissed angrily, and Holmes looked up, interested. "His brother? Would his name, by any chance, be Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John gave the other man a suspicious look.

"Ye-es?" John answered, more a question. "How do you know this? Actually, better question: Who are you?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and I was merely doing an experiment with Watson's dog when I got sucked backwards and flew into this place. Where am I, by the way?"

Sherlock and John glanced at each other. Watson's dog? Sherlock wondered.

"Wait..." Holmes said, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at John. "You're John Watson, aren't you?"

"Doctor John Watson, yes."

"Oh." Holmes's look turned wistful. "I miss my Watson. Not you, I mean my friend Watson. He just got married, actually..."

"Okay, I'm going to see which one of you is the real Sherlock," John sighed, and held up a hand to stave off Sherlock's angry protests. "No, Sherlock, he needs to see that you are who you say you are, and we need to see if he answers right."

Holmes shrugged. "Fair to me."

"First off: your full nam-" John's question was cut off by the Sherlock Holmeses.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Sherlock said, while Holmes merely muttered "Sherlock Holmes."

John raised an eyebrow, and Holmes stared at Sherlock. "There is no William Scott in my name!" he protested.

"Er, addresses?" John tried.

"221b Baker Street!" A tie.

"Er, siblings?"

"One brother, Mycroft," Holmes said, just as Sherlock scrunched his nose and sighed,

"A brother, Mycroft Holmes, the British Government," but John noticed that they both averted their eyes.

"Alright... Let's see, er, archenemies?"

Both Sherlock Holmeses hissed, simultaneously, "Moriarty."

"Okay, really," John sighed. "Sherlock, just deduce him. You both know everything!"

"I have!" Sherlock cried. "And the only information I can glean from his dusty, torn clothes is that he is from the bloody nineteenth century, doesn't sleep much, uses an assortment of drugs-" John winced- "and is a magnificent fighter!"

"Doesn't sleep, uses, wears weird clothes so either I'm in the future, you're just an oddball, or your mother picks them and has bad taste, lives alone but has some sort of maid, does experiments with chemicals often, is lazy, and is a decent fighter. I've got more, but that would take all day." Both rants were said in less than five seconds and at a rapid-fire speed that only Sherlock could usually reach. John's eyebrows shot up, and Sherlock frowned, hissing "Showoff" under his breath.

John smacked a hand to his forehead, and muttered, "Oh God, there are two of them. I'm going home to Mary, try not to kill each other." And he walked out of the flat.

Sherlock and Holmes stared at each other for a few seconds before simultaneously collapsing into chairs; Sherlock into his and Holmes into John's.

"Well, I suppose I really am in a different world, then."

"Mmh."

"Got any dogs?"

Sherlock gave Holmes an unimpressed look. "So you can kill them? I would say no even if I did, but no."

"So is that a no-yes or a no-no?" Holmes asked, confused.

Sherlock threw his hands up into the air and snatched his violin from the table before beginning one of Bach's partitas.

Holmes nodded along to the beat, right up until the point where he felt an odd pull from his navel, like a fish hook had caught him there, but decidedly less painful. He felt himself pulled backward, with John's chair, and Holmes threw a glance at his host. "Uh, William...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped playing. "It's Sherlock," he snapped. "And what?"

"I think I'm-"

BANG!

There was another puff of grey smoke, and Sherlock blinked the dust out of his eyes, coughing. The fire alarm in his flat finally went off, and Mrs. Hudson came hurrying up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" she shrieked. "Dear, are you all right? What happened? Another experiment gone wrong? Oh, my flat..."

"Is Holmes gone?" Sherlock asked, staring at John's empty chair.

"Sorry?" Mrs. Hudson asked, opening the window. The dust and smoke was sucked through it, and Mrs. Hudson shut off the alarm.

The room was in ruins, but there was no sign of Holmes.

"Ah, great! The world's only consulting detective again," Sherlock sighed. "No more imposter me, just Sherlock Holmes, no nineteenth century fraud."

A half-hour later, Mrs. Hudson called John to ask what was wrong with Sherlock ("Searching the flat for a time machine, he says!"), but he merely told her, "You don't want to know" in an ominous sort of voice, and Mrs. Hudson merely put it to the Baker Street boys and their odd habits, and hobbled back to her flat to bake some biscuits for them anyway.


End file.
